Vouloir
by LittleMissMorbid
Summary: ."She missed the invitations to parties, missed the jokes aimed at her, missed the quick swap of money and drugs; she was pure, uncorrupted, and absolutely goddamn perfect." Paulie/Casey/Mr. Gilmour:DISCONTINUED
1. Chapter 1

Fic requested/suggested by my Paigeykins, xscarsxofxremiinence, and if you haven't seen her vids you should definitely go and check them out _now _on youtube.

www . youtube . com / user / xscarsxofxremiinence

This is sort of an AU fic, where our favorite smartass lesbo dukes it out with a teach.

Enjoyyy.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The clock ticks, its quiet whispers reminding her of how slow this class actually moves; papers shuffle, chairs squeak, the teacher's voice disintegrates into a steady hum—it's moments like this that Paulie enjoys, the moments where she's acutely aware of the girl in front of her, from her brunette hair down to her bare, tanned arm.

The collaboration of sounds continues, steady vibration of meshed together sounds creating an odd high.

When the heavy, murky rip comes, leaving a black line through her vision, a sound of surprise escapes her lips; the rip appears again, and again, and again, and Paulie shakes her head, hands subconsciously raising to her skull in efforts to erase the horrid feeling.

"Paulie? Are you okay?" A brown blurred figure stands above her, hovering, his breathing echoing in her ear. A groan bubbles up her throat and she raises one eyelid to look up at the person who chose to interrupt her sleep.

"If it's quite all right with _you, _" her eyes refocus, the man above her sharpens, creating pulsating force fields with his words, "I'd like to continue my class now."

Somehow Paulie is able to choke out, "'Kay," and manages to keep her head up for him to shut up and get to the front of the classroom. He doesn't bother her for the rest of the period, and Paulie can resume watching the little mole on Casey's arm walk up her skin, dancing alongside her white shirt, settling into her hair; all the things _she _wants to do with her own hands, fingers, lips.

When the bell rings, the groggy girl watches the sound waves bounce alongside the hustling crowd. Casey shines like an angel and it is beautiful, really, watching the light emanate from her as she talks to the teacher—Mr. G-something—about extra credit.

When Casey returns to her desk to retrieve her things, Paulie whispers, "You're an angel. You have this white glow about you, you know? It's really pretty."

Casey smiles, clearly thinking Paulie was one of the Special Ed kids, and offers help with her bags. But the teacher, Mr-G-something, stops her and tells Casey to go ahead. Casey's eyes glow as she catches her own amber ones.

"Go home Paulie," he says, leaning back on his desk. He doesn't have a glow. "And don't let me catch you like this again in school, you got it?"

"Mm-hmm," She waves a hand dismissively. Paulie feels a retort at the tip of her tongue, but is utterly fascinated by the sunlight gleaming against his skin, and forgets about it.

"See ya, Mr. G-something."

He corrects her, but she doesn't hear.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Brett Gilmour is well aware that if _she—_no, if _anyone_—knew what he did after hours, camping out in his car with his camera equipment, its worth ranging up to thousands of dollars, he'd be risking more than his job and reputation. He takes a quick breath as the camera quickly focuses on a pair of legs, and exhales when he gets the shot.

It didn't just escalate to this when he first saw her. No, it began as admiration. Admiration for her skill, motivation –admiration of her entirety. Then just seeing her wasn't enough, so he called on her more during class, just to hear her voice ring out, strong and unwavering. It was a full-fledged crush when she came up to his desk in tears about her test.

His heart hammered in his chest, tingles ran, crazed, down his skin, his breathing became a slow staccato in his ears; Casey McDonald was all he thought about for a really long time. And then the dreams came—the subconscious yearnings kept him up at night, kept him obsessed even unconscious—after a month, something had to give. So he switched into a lower math class, knowing Casey would never grace his presence.

But somehow she still came around, in the halls, by Paul's office—was he looking for her? Or was it coincidence?

He began taking pictures of her when the raspy needing in his body became too much. When the dreams were borderline hallucinations. The shutters whisper his unspoken words, his wantings. Brett Gilmour was completely and totally in love with Casey McDonald, and yet he could never have her.

So he took the pictures, and in the safety of his own home, he let himself pretend—just for a little while—that she did too.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The day Paulie saw Casey McDonald was also the beginning of her sophomore year at Sir John Sparrow high school—a name that was entirely too long for any sort of educational facility, especially for a facility that reeked of puke on the first day. Leaning up against the office doorway, waiting for the pudgy secretary—Christine or Cathy, a name with a C—to finish printing her timetable. The woman was on her knees, fighting a paper jam, grunting and moaning, sounding suspiciously like she was fornicating with the damned machine.

Anyway, she'd been leaning beside the office door and suddenly that leggy brunette shoved the front door open with rage, muttering under her breath, face colored with annoyance—she would have been hard to miss regardless, with the globs of green paint stuck in her hair—but the girl radiated a sense of sex appeal that made Paulie's mouth water.

And on the next day, Paulie saw the same girl, without the paint this time, sitting right in front of her in her math class.

"Casey?" A long arm rose up, the skin taunting her.

"Here."

As far as Paulie could tell, Casey was a diligent student that missed all the social cues in high school; she missed the invitations to parties, missed the jokes aimed at her, missed the quick swap of money and drugs (or on one memorable occasion, money and alcohol), she was pure, uncorrupted, and absolutely goddamn perfect.

She also saw the way _he _looked at her, lingering, keeping his eyes still, a little too controlled, a little too unflinchingly. Their hands touch every time she hands in a paper. His smile grows just a bit. Not too much. Casey is unaware of his thoughts, of his eyes.

He doesn't know Paulie knows. And right now, she'll keep it that way—as long as he stays in his place and leaves the lines uncrossed, there's nothing wrong with looking. Hell, it's what she's doing.

But when he stopped her that day, stopped her from building up all her courage behind of veil of colored sounds and booming letters, he crossed a line. He kept her from getting close, and Paulie knows it wasn't the drugs.

It was Casey.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The next day, after Gilmour sent her home, she follows him—with distance, with quick, quiet steps—outside, where he steps into his car. He drives out of the parking lot and she keeps up with him for a few feet, till he's out on the freeway and merging, camouflaged, with all the other drivers.

The man will be back—there's a game tonight, and Casey's on the cheer squad. No way in hell he'd miss that. Paulie circles back, and heads down the route to her own home, where she'll lie low and wait for six o' clock to come.

Worn shoes scuffling down the pavement, a detour is administered. Two crumpled tens exchange hands. A small baggie filled with two small orange pills slip into her jeans pocket, fitting comfortably, like a worn glove.

Slow, scuffling footsteps return onto the designated route, and stop only when the worn fence comes into view—the house coated in grime and mold; the grass overgrown, wild and tangled; the brick pathway uprooted and cracked, showing its jagged carcasses to the swollen grey sky. The screen door slacks slightly, a gaping smile. Skillfully, the sharp bricks are avoided, the weeds smashed. The door opens with a whine, the loose mesh screen billowing in the wind.

Inside, the carpet has been removed, showing a worn, bare wood floor. Deep indentations that look like claw marks have dug into the cracks. The walls are an off grey color, spelling out age and melancholy. A lone chair sits in the living room, its pea-green upholstery fraying at the ends.

Copper-colored beer bottles line up alongside the counter in the kitchen, looking down at the glass shards from their fallen comrade. Slim, feminine hands retrieve the litter gently, and toss it into an old plastic bucket that serves as the garbage can.

Paulie retreats from the lonely chair, the spectator bottles, and knocks on a door that displays Miley Cyrus grinning cheesily, her fake hair flying around her like a halo. Her name is on the bottom of the poster in big, puffy pink letters. It's the only birthday present her sister got.

"Come in," states a quiet voice.

"Hey, sis. Have a good day at school?"

Large, blue eyes peer at her behind bifocals. Dirty blonde hair tied up into pig tails fall down chubby shoulders. A smile reveals slightly crooked teeth, inflamed gums. Her button nose wrinkles as she attempts to push her glasses back into place.

"Yes," she beams, the picture book momentarily forgotten, perched in her lap.

Paulie pets one of the blonde pigtails. "Yeah? What'd you do?"

"We made hand turkeys and learned how to play the recorders today!"

Paulie's lips tilt into a smile. "Did you have fun?"

Her sister nods earnestly, and for a brief moment she is reminded of Casey.

"Good, Anna. That's really good. Looking forward to tomorrow, right? You're going to the aquarium?"

"You need to sign my paper, Paulie! You promised! And I want to see the penguins! Can I take one home, Paulie, please?"

Paulie quickly forges her mother's signature on the dotted line, and hands it back.

"He might miss his friends, Anns. How about we go get you a fish this weekend? Would you like that?"

Paulie isn't sure just how in the hell she can afford a five dollar fish, since she just blue her last twenty on speed. But she'll figure it out, she always does.

"'Kay. Can we look at the puppies too?"

"Sure, Anns. Of course we can."

She retreats from the bedroom, the small ray of light in this sad house, and shuts the door, Miley's too-wide smile assaulting her vision.

It's hard, sometimes, with Anna around. But she loves her sister more than anything, and even though her heart hammers with worry as it seeps through her veins and creates a venomous nausea at night, Paulie wouldn't trade the time she gets with the girl for anything.

It's just…

Who's going to take care of Anna when Paulie isn't there?

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"'Kay, Anns, I'm going out. You know my number, right?"

Anna is focused on addition problems. She's ten years old, and working on addition problems. A pang of guilt hits her chest as she grabs her jacket.

"Recite it for me, please." Anna hates being interrupted when she's trying to work, but Paulie needs this, needs the calm.

"416-555-0348," Anna says huffily, rolling her eyes.

For being developmentally challenged, Anna can be a smartass. Paulie smirks, ruffles the blonde hair just to make her squeal with anger.

"Paul-eee!" Anna whines, quickly fixing her hair, a pout growing across her chubby features.

"I'll bring you a candy bar if you're good."

"Hershey's?"

"Would I forget my little sister's favorite?"

"Yay! Thanks, Paulie."

She closes the door, that damn smile haunting her again.

The cold burns her cheeks as she steps out on the porch, slipping a cigarette between her cracked lips. The flame hisses as it ignites, burning the tobacco. It races through her bloodstream, makes her close her eyes momentarily with feeling.

"Where are you going?"

She knows that voice. That rough, miserable, pathetic voice.

Her mother stands in front of her, matching the shadows and the night's colors a little too well. The woman's wan, worn features stand out as the flame illuminates her face.

Paulie has her mother's eyes, her mother's hair. It scares her sometimes, how much like her mother she really is.

"School. There's a game."

She sneers at her daughter, but chooses to say nothing, and shoves past her to get inside.

"Joyce?"

She never calls her _Mom. _

"Leave Anna alone."

The woman ignores her, but the warning is clear.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The gym is loud, echoes ringing off the walls as the dance competition starts. Paulie spies Casey, flashing tanned skin and artfully applied eyeliner. She looks around as if she's nervous.

Paulie looks at the line of teachers on the wall, each carrying a bored expression, and knows Gilmour isn't there. Nor is he in the opposing bleachers on the other side of the gym.

He either decided not to show up, or he's on her side. But it's not like Paulie can just go waltzing up and down the gym floor, looking for a creeper who may or may not be there.

So she simply scowls and watches the women leap and cartwheel, their taut muscles gleaming in the harsh light.

The two hours pass rather quickly, and Mr. Gilmour is nowhere to be found. Paulie relaxes a bit and watches the dancers file out of the gym, gym bags and towels and water bottles hiding their perfect asses, sweaty skin, flushed faces.

And then she sees him. Dark coat, brown corduroy pants, a Leafs hat on backwards. Large sunglasses hide his face as he sits in his car. She also sees the camera around his neck.

His arms begin to lift it up, slightly, and Paulie jogs over to the car before he can get his shot.

"Hey Gilmour," Paulie says casually, "What'd you think of the competition."

He jolts upright, taking his glasses off. "Um," the man strains to see behind her, trying to find Casey in the gaggle of young women, "It was, it was very good."

"Right," Paulie says, leering at him, "Casey was quite good. Did you notice anyone else?"

His face turns red-hot and his words are simply incoherent, mashed together syllables that don't form words.

"I-I have to go, Paulie, I'll see you in class tomorrow!" The window rolls up and Gilmour slips away.

When she gets home, and looks in on Anna, who's sleeping peacefully, she realizes she forgot the damned candy.

Her mother is passed out on the couch, snoring like a drugged beast, and Paulie tosses a growl in her general direction before retreating to bed herself.

There, in the dark, she smiles and lets the feelings of achievement wash over her body.


	2. Chapter 2

The panic hit him much like a semi crushes past a person's chest plate, smashing into the beating organ that is commonly equated with love. The rain hits the window, sounding like muffled gunshots, startling him momentarily as he turns on the wipers. It's freezing outside, but all he can think about is peeling off his sweaty clothes and taking some deep breaths. After he calms down, he'll think about this rationally—because how much could one girl possibly know?

The place he resides in is rather small, but it fits him. The kitchen is perfectly round, with enough space for a refrigerator, countertop spanning no more than a few feet, the sink, and then a small table. Cabinets have been drilled into the ceiling, and can hold no more than a few pounds in weight due to the risk of the entire ceiling falling down.

The dining room doubles as a TV room and a tea room (the TV is just there for company when he has tea). There is one small loveseat, filled of lumpy stuffing and one streaky glass table with only three legs. He holds the fourth side up with old editions of _National Geographic._

From the dining room is the entrance into the hallway, which has two doors at either end—the bathroom (that he does all his photo work in) and his bedroom (that's covered with pictures of legs arms eyes teeth).

The carpet is an odd pea-green color, with many stains (the origins of which are anyone's guess).

Overall, Brett Gilmour quite likes his humble abode, despite the fact that it's hardly luxury.

Tonight, he does not collapse onto the lumpy sofa with a long weary sigh. Tonight, he locks the door behind him, peels off all of his clothes save for his undershirt and boxers, and goes into his bathroom. The bright red light illuminates his skin as he sinks to the floor, breathing quivery little breaths. Casey is suddenly around him, her skin and her smiles and her _eyes _making him slowly forget why he was afraid in the first place.

Casey makes him remember all the good things, before that summer at his grandma's house; makes him remember the taste of watermelon during the hottest days of the years, of puppydogs and first kisses. She makes him remember what it's like to be _alive. _

The red leeches out onto the green carpet as his bare feet make contact with its spongy texture. His body falls free, onto his mattress, where his eyes are free to roam, free to stare openly at the girl—no, woman—that has changed him so.

When morning comes—pinks, greys, purples, and oranges, all mixing into a brilliant mess—he awakes, having fully forgotten his anxiety from the night before. Cracked lips split as they stretch into a large, noisy yawn; worn, wool-lined slippers comfortably house clammy, icy feet. Padding out onto the hardwood floor, his hands reach for a worn cardboard box, and the dry oatmeal hisses as it crashes into a mahogany clay bowl.

He always has breakfast first. After the bowl and spoon is washed in white opaque suds, he allows himself an hour of photo developing, then a shower.

The neon red light leaks onto his form as he closes the door behind him. Developed film rolls hang before him, filled of a certain endearing brunette. He takes the first roll down, peering at it against the light momentarily before choosing his picture of the day.

Leaning against a pole, her slender form is hunched, tired; the light above hits her face in a way that illuminates her features, setting fire to her eyes, creating shadows against her parted lips. It's his favorite photo so far, because he sees a glimpse of the gentle, true Casey; not the put-together, perfect front she puts up at school.

He grabs a sheet of photo paper, turns on the timer, sets the light accordingly, and waits as the room is filled with the humming trills of excitement.

The timer dings, and he takes the paper, slipping it into a tub of liquid. Moving the picture back and forth, _she _appears on the paper, subtly, almost like magic.

He smiles, and decides today is going to be a good day.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Paulie wakes up to screeching, particularly of the irritating female kind. First she groans in grumpiness, then sits up quickly when Anna's mentioned.

"What did I tell you about putting the milk back in the fridge when you're done with it? Huh? I swear, sometimes you're so stupid I think I should just send you away. At least I'd save some money on fucking milk."

Anna never fights back when their mother is concerned. It's better just to shut up and let her rant.

Paulie, stomping out of her room in a pair of boy's jockey shorts and a tank top, is greeted by the smell of alcohol.

"Gee, alcohol this early in the morning? I see you set such high standards for yourself."

It's better to take the woman's focus off Anna and onto her. She can deal, Anna can't—and shouldn't have to.

"Like you have any room to speak. You think I don't know about the drugs? I could call the cops on your ass, girl."

"Go ahead. I can make a sob story about how you use federal funds to fuel your alcoholic tendencies. No judge would send me to juvie after something like that."

Her wrinkles tighten as she scowls. Then she takes a swig of beer, making a show of it, letting out an exaggerated pleased sigh as the bottle leaves her lips.

"Anna, go get ready for school. I'll walk you."

Anna almost never disobeys her older sister. She meekly leaves her soggy cereal, closing the door so softly it's almost a whisper.

"I told you to back off." Paulie hisses, moving closer to the swaying form in the corner.

"I'm your mother. I can do whatever the fuck I want, I don't have to do _shit."_

"You never do." Paulie sneers, turning around to find something of nutritional value for breakfast.

A hand grabs her upper arm, long, jagged nails digging into her flesh. Paulie wrenches away, shoving the woman against the counter.

"Touch me again and I'll have Social Services get involved."

The older woman hesitates, but calls her out on her bluff. "You wouldn't do that. Anna would get sent away and you love that brat too much to do that to her."

"Try me." Paulie utters in a growl.

There's a brief staredown—gold eyes against jaundiced ones—and Paulie wins. As far as that woman goes, Paulie can win most of the time. It's just in every other aspect of her life that doesn't seem to come as easily.

Mornings are usually pretty quiet, with exception of the snoring form on the couch. This was just an out of ordinary morning, and Paulie is pretty sure the day is going to go on like that.

Clean clothes are a rarity; both the girls run out before the week is up, before Saturday which is laundry day. The owner lets them wash for free, 'cause he knows the drunk and feels bad.

Paulie learned quickly to invest in frebreze and dryer sheets. It's less embarrassing that way.

Anna finds her at the sink, eyeing the woman glaring at her sister nervously. Paulie is either oblivious or doesn't care; she spits, rinses, and then turns to her.

"Ready to go?"

Meek nod.

She grabs a jacket, double-checks for the cigarettes and her wallet in her pockets, then takes the worn bookbag from the closet. There is no farewell directed at the woman sitting at the table, watching her daughters with malice.

Anna takes a big sigh when they're finally on the sidewalk, home a few blocks away and almost a distant memory. She looks at Paulie for a moment, and wonders if what her mother said about the drugs were true. And if it was, why would her big sister take them?

"Do you have lunch money?" Paulie starts digging around in her pocket, looking for the bill she swiped from that bitch's purse.

"No." The crumpled bill meets her hand, and Anna takes it.

When the familiar chugging of the bus rings in the air, Paulie starts fixing Anna's hair, straitening her collar and zipping up her jacket, like what a real mom would do.

"You know to meet me here after school today, right? Mrs. Mahoney's off today."

Mrs. Mahoney runs an after-school daycare at her school, and the arrangement is, she takes the kids every day, from three to six except for Wednesday. Anna likes it, because they do things like painting and coloring, and sometimes Mrs. Mahoney schedules special things, like the time the policeman brought his dog in for show and tell, or the time she let them all take turns on one of those mini cars made special for kids.

Sometimes Paulie treated her like a baby, and Anna really hated it. But this morning she feels thankful, because it means Paulie really does love her.

"Yeah." The bus arrives, and Paulie gives her a kiss on the forehead. Anna is bewildered at first, Paulie's not one to really hug or kiss, but then she gives her a hug and steps onto the bus.

Anna watches her sister until she becomes a speck on the sidewalk.

The second her younger sibling is gone, the cigarettes come out first—mornings at the bus stop is what she enjoys most—then she takes whatever drugs she has on her that day, and today it's speed.

There's something special about speed—it gives her an insane amount of energy, sure, and sometimes it sucks having to sit in a classroom when all she wants to do is run in circles—but it makes her feel like she's on top of the world, someone _important. _

Paulie needs that, sometimes.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When Brett goes to his classroom, dodging past the kids in the hall, the chatter loud and buzzing, the first thing he sees is Casey McDonald at her locker, digging out her book for her history class. He knows her schedule, and even though it makes him feel like a stalker, he likes knowing where so is so he can imagine her attentive, rapt expression.

He's in his classroom for maybe three minutes when the girl of his dreams walks in, slightly nervous as she walks up to his desk.

Distracting himself by the papers on his desk, Brett says casually, "Hey, Casey. What brings you here this morning?"

"Um, well, I was wondering…this next chapter, I took a look at it this weekend, well I guess technically _last _weekend, because I like to make notes and familiarize myself with the material—"

He loves it that she's rambling; he can pretend she's nervous about his presence.

"—and I realized I don't understand it at all and I was thinking maybe you could tutor me for a bit, till I grasp the concept, because I want to get a good grade—"

"I'd love to, Casey." Brett says this calmly, like his heart isn't threatening to burst through his chest.

Casey beams. "Really? Thanks, Mr. Gilmour! I really appreciate it!"

Then the bell rings, and Casey waves a little giddy goodbye before she darts out of his classroom, allowing him to sit back and sigh, allowing excitement to run through his veins.

Today was _definitely _going to be a good day.


	3. Chapter 3

Slow updates suck, I know.

I'm going to try to set a little more time aside for this fic, because I want to see how it develops. I've never tackled this particular subject before.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He's confident today, she notes, pausing her tapping fingers in dismay. Sitting up straight, slight smile on his lips—one that reaches his eyes, not the fake one he uses most of the time. _Why _is he confident? The man shouldn't be; what guy _smiles _after being confronted about his creepy peeping-tom issues?

Paulie stares at him long enough for him to feel it, but he doesn't look at her. Good. It means he's still nervous about what she knows.

Casey comes in, striking stares as she usually does; she pauses at his desk, flashing a smile and a greeting, and then goes to her desk. Casey doesn't catch either of their stares; she's busied herself with getting out the proper notebook and notecards, being her typically keener self.

But still—Casey pauses long enough to say hi to _him. _Paulie's invisible.

"Today we're going to talk about the newest section in polynomials."

The chalk screeches as he writes an equation—it hums in tune with the thrumming of her fingers, her pounding heart, working overtime as the drugs work through her blood. Paulie's never been musically inclined really, but on drugs her imagination comes _alive _and she can do whatever she likes. Even talk to the straight girl in front of her.

Casey shrugs off her pink tuxedo jacket, revealing skin beneath an equally feminine blouse. Her right leg peeks out from her desk, tantalizingly long as the sun catches her bronze skin and makes it shine.

It's hard to explain how the sight of skin shining in the sunlight can send anyone's libido into overdrive, but the effects Casey has on Paulie are clear; saliva overproduction, flushed face, inner thighs beginning to burn with the familiar sensation of lust.

And then she drops her pencil. It's like something out of a cheesy teen romance flick; the yellow pencil makes its descent to the ground in slow motion, then rolls to her converses in the way that opportunities usually come into one's life—quick, unannounced, and absolutely _perfect. _

Paulie drops down quick—which isn't hard when so much pent up energy begins to trickle through one movement. Under the desk, gobs of dried gum greet her, and so does Casey's wandering hand. It's a nice hand; long, sleek, fingernails painted in a safe coral pink. Her hand bumps into her own rough, callused one, and she promptly forgets how to speak.

There she is, crosslegged, housed under a gum and spit infested desk, with the pencil in one hand and _her _hand brushing against her redhot skin, already burning with heat from embarrassment and the aforementioned lust.

Casey leans over, hair falling against her neck, glinting in the light.

"Oh. Hi."

Speechlessly, Paulie hands over the pencil.

"Er, thanks."

Pause. The decision on whether to leave her there and follow the lesson or stay and quench her curiosity sparkles like little icicles in her eyes.

"Um, what are you doing down there?"

She focuses on the blue, gets lost in the little flecks of green, and after a long lull, remembers that she must answer.

Paulie manages to choke out one word—"Pencil."

Casey only nods, giving her a strange look, then sits back up, the lead scratching against the paper furiously as she tried to catch up with her notetaking.

The conversation was _supposed _to go like this:

"Oh! Thanks for getting my pencil!"

"No problem. Casey, right?"

"Yeah. What's your name?"

"Paulie." (cue charming smile here)

"Wanna go to dinner with me and have hot steamy sex after?"

"Sure!"

"'Kay!"

So obviously some of it was wishful thinking. But Casey was supposed to know her _name _at least. Now she was just the weird girl that sat under desks catching pencils. They would call her _pencil-catcher, _and no one would ever know her name or otherwise know she ever existed.

She suppresses a groan and weasels her way back into the crook of the desk. And big surprise, Gilmour is all over that, ready to catch her in the act again of some misdeed. He stops talking, walks over with the ruler resting in one hand like he was about to smack her with it.

"Pay attention, Ms. Landar. It's only going to get harder as we go along."

Who calls anyone by their last name in high school? A guy that wants to suck up to the girl of _her _dreams. And at this point in time, he's winning—and the glint in his eyes says he knows that as well.

It's not a biting retort, but Casey is dangerously close—and god forbid she think of him badly.

"Right." She mumbles, staring at the penciled carvings in the desk in order to avoid the stares of her peers.

He returns to the board, and Casey turns around briefly to whisper an apology.

"_Sorry."_

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The bell rings shrilly, and Brett's student leave the classroom in record time, stampeding toward the cafeteria where they all will no doubt share memories of bad sex and drug highs while swapping addresses for weekend parties, blissfully unaware of the realities of life.

Only Casey waits, packing her neatly organized backpack quietly. She wears a white button up blouse and a denim skirt, tanned legs going on for miles until he reaches her sensible black shoes.

He's suddenly thankful his lower half is hidden by a desk.

She slips the bag around her shoulders, then smiles gently at him before asking quietly, "Um, I was wondering when you could tutor me? If you can't, it's okay, I mean I'm sure you have a life and a girlfriend or wife—"her mouth closes abruptly.

His dark eyebrows furrow as he resists the urge to laugh. "No, actually, I don't have either of those, Casey. But I'm available every day until four, unless I have a prior commitment."

Mentally, he scoffs. _What _prior commitments?

"Really? Is today okay then, Mr. Gilmour? I'm not sure about the homework assignment just yet."

His heart is racing, hands twitching under the desk, but his face is blank, casual. Calm.

"That's fine, Casey. I'll see you after school."

"'Kay. Bye!"

Paulie pretends to be opening her locker as she eavesdrops, waiting for Casey to exit. Her locker is nowhere near Gilmour's class, but Casey doesn't know that.

Casey barely notices her, probably intent on her usual schedule for her school days. So Paulie kind of meeky calls out, "Hi," but it's almost a whisper.

Casey's head jerks toward her direction, her eyes wide and startled. She looks relieved when she realizes who it is. Is it because Paulie's not much of a threat? Her heart leaps at that, disappointed.

Casey looks at her, not moving closer but just still, taking her in like she's some kind of alien.

"So, um, I'm Paulie." Suddenly it's like the speed she took this morning has completely wore off.

Casey tilts her head, not really smiling but not really showing any other emotion. Just kind of blank. "Casey. Where are you headed?"

"Oh," Paulie shifts her gaze from Casey's eyes. "Lunch detention. Heh."

Casey kind of smirks. "Oh, you must know Derek, then."

Paulie shrugs. "Heard of him."

Casey just kind of nods and then excuses herself, heading toward the lunchroom.

Well, it wasn't the meeting she was hoping for, but at least Casey knows her name.

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	4. Chapter 4

Note: I cannot explain math so I'm not even going to try.

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Lunch detention is hardly entertaining. The walls, covered with beige paint and white grooves (most likely from an altercation or two between her peers), surround a chipped teacher's desk at front and smaller wooden ones for the students. Paulie sighs, takes the first one at the left of the room. There's four rows of desks, sixteen in total. She's the only one here today, it seems, so she just pulls out her practically unused notebook and doodles in it to pass the time.

The supervisor today is a buxom woman with horn-rimmed glasses and an odd mole next to the corner of her right eye. Paulie never bothers to learn their names. The large woman settles down into the worn green-cushioned chair, putting a Mill and Boon novel in front of her, eyeing it with anticipation. Paulie rolls her eyes—romance seems entirely too fitting for a woman like her, but it's still cheesy to witness.

The late bell rings and suddenly four males stampede into the room, plopping quickly into the first row beside her.

A few minutes later, the brown haired, leather-jacket swathed, smirking king of her high school comes in, switching on the charm quickly to weasel his way out of being late. Paulie's a little appalled Casey thought she would know him.

"Glad you've decided to grace us with your presence, Derek," the teacher says wryly, holding the clipboard in front of her, "I'm going to take roll call. Looks like we're at an all-time low today."

"Paulette?"

Paulie winces, and then raises a few fingers in recognition of her (albeit terrible) name; "Paulie, actually," she corrects, but the teacher ignores her.

Derek, predictably, is at the bottom of the list.

"Venturi." She glances at his slumped posture in the desk at the far back, and scribbles something on the paper.

"Now, I want all of you to be quiet," She snaps, "I'm serious."

The chair squeaks as she sits down again, picking up the book and letting out a little sigh as she begins to read.

Most of the students in the room pull out their cell phones, beginning to text to their friends about how shitty it is in lunch detention. In fact, Paulie's the only one in the room that doesn't have her fingers on a phone right now, but that's all right. She has a prepaid cell phone for emergencies, and so does Anna.

She focuses on drawing perfect circles, and then gets bored and doodles some more. Anna's really the one that got the artistic inclination, too. The only thing Paulie's good at is lying between her teeth and biting off more than she can chew.

And being a good sister. She's good at that.

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He's absolutely wired, jolts of excitement filling up his stomach and chest like firecrackers. But he has to keep his cool. So he takes a few deep breaths, sips some of his Coke, and tries to focus on the remaining assignments he needs to correct.

Somehow Brett gets lost in the scrawled numbers and barely hears the bell ring. But the unfinished stack of ungraded assignments sticks out like a sore thumb, and he frowns. There's going to be no time for the darkroom this evening, then. Sometimes he hates being a teacher.

But then Casey comes in, silence shrouded around her as she takes a seat at her regular desk. She feels awkward in his presence, his obvious authority somehow daunting to her, despite the fact that he's been nothing but kind and respectful.

"Actually, Casey, I think it would be better if we just took these papers," he stands up and begins moving the piles of pages onto the abandoned smaller desks, "and moved them, so we could share my desk. There'd be more room,"

"Right," Casey murmurs, "You're right." And she busies herself by moving the last two piles of graded pages. Mr. Gilmour brings a chair from the corner of the room to the other side of the desk, so she can sit parallel to him.

Her head dips closer to her book as she searches for the homework assignment. Gilmour swallows hard, his heart beating fast. She's _so close. _Her hair smells like some sort of girly fruit concoction, her skin undoubtedly soft. It's thrilling to be near her yet frustrating because he can't do anything but look.

"So, question number twenty-four…" she breathes, writing down the equation in her notebook, "is one of the ones I don't understand," Casey looks up at him, pushing the pencil toward him.

Brett clears his throat, catching her stare for a moment before reading the neatly written problem on the paper. His voice is confident, soothing, as he begins to explain the process. His hand accidently brushes hers as he turns the notebook back to her. The touch is electric, running up her spine like a skittering bug. Her heart leaps, slightly startled at the close proximity of him.

Casey doesn't seem particularly nervous, but she's aware of the awkwardness that ensues when one is alone with a teacher. It's a sort of intimacy that doesn't typically happen with such authority, and so she partly can't wait till she can leave.

The other part of her is obsessed with that math grade.

"Casey…" he says slowly, in that soothing way that he _always _does, just for her, "Do you think you've got the hang of it?"

Casey doesn't notice the things he does for her, and it absolutely kills him sometimes. If only she'd look past the obvious and just _see _how perfect they'd be!

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Thanks." Casey says, giving him one of her polite close-lipped smiles. She packs and gets ready to leave, pulling the bag onto one shoulder as she stands up.

"Well, have a good day then, Casey. And good luck with the homework," Brett says, wanting to stay closer to her, wanting to take in her soft smell just a little longer.

"Thanks. You have a good day, too." She smiles again, and then slips out the doorway just as quietly as she entered.

Brett lets out a big gush of air, slight loneliness and disappointment replacing the excitement she had created. He hopes she'll be back.

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Paulie's on her way down to the bus stop where she's supposed to meet Anna when she gets that feeling in her gut that something's wrong. The one that gnaws and makes the back of your neck prickle with anticipation. But she's not sure what it is, and so all she can do is just sit and wait.

The chug-chug-chugging of the bus eventually permeates the painful anticipatory silence, and Paulie relaxes slightly. Maybe it's nothing. The massive yellow vehicle groans as it stops in front of her, letting out an out clunk as it does so, a sound something akin to a sigh.

Anna gets off with a giant leap, skipping the two steps entirely, as she always does. Paulie does a quick once over and doesn't see any tears, any evidence of any life threatening injuries, she looks like Anna. So Paulie relaxes a bit.

Paulie starts off their usual conversation:

"How was your day?"

"Good! We had mashed potatoes and gravy for lunch, and I got seconds!" Paulie stares at her sister for a moment, wondering how anyone could enjoy the slop schools served their students.

Anna runs ahead of her, stopping to pick a wilting dandelion. By the time Paulie's caught up with her, she has bunches of them held together by her hairband.

"So when are we gonna get my fish?"

Paulie sighs. Of course she remembered that little white lie.

"Dunno, Ann. When we have the money, I guess."

Anna pauses, wringing the stems in her hand, biting her lip. The green liquid oozes across her hands like blood.

"If I save up the money, can we go next Saturday?"

Mentally, Paulie groans. Why had she suggested something like that in the first place? Sure, a fish didn't cost much, but it would die in about a week. And death was something Paulie wasn't equipped to deal with or explain.

When her father had stuck around, he'd told Paulie they'd get a dog someday. And Anna had been hung up on getting a pet ever since she learned people had them.

They're edging closer to the house now, and the eldest sister has yet to respond.

"Paulie!" Anna whines, stopping at the yard, refusing to budge.

"Maybe, okay? Maybe." Paulie finally relents.

Paulie stops at the steps, nudging her inside with her foot, "Go on. Do your homework. I'll be inside in a moment."

It's common for Joyce to be out when they arrive home. One time, she'd come home drunk out of her mind, some guy hanging off of her, and had Anna so scared she'd slept in Paulie's bed for weeks.

So now she knows better. Wait till Joyce gets home. Assess the situation, and most importantly, don't let Anna hear.

Today, the woman arrives unaccompanied but definitely drunk. She shoves past Paulie and mumbles something about mistakes, then promptly dives headfirst into the couch. Her snores are heard moments later.

Anna pokes her head out, "Mom home?"

"Yeah. Spaghettios sound okay for dinner?"

Anna's eyes light up. Normally they have ramen or one of those ninety-nine cent burritos from the gas station.

They don't have a microwave, so Paulie cooks the spaghettios by putting the can on the stove burner for a few minutes. The oven no longer works, so they use it to store dishes. Paulie grabs two mismatched, chipped bowls from below and sets them on the plastic lawn table. The only appliance that really works in that house is the fridge. The larger component, supposed to simply keep things cold, freezes while the smaller component, supposed to freeze, refrigerates. It's a little fucked.

She also uses the leftover cans for the endless packs of ramen they have. It's true, you really can learn five different ways to cook ramen when you live in a shithole.

"_Bon appétit," _ says Paulie in an exaggerated tone, setting the bowl in front of her sister.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you something," Anna begins in a small tone, suggesting that she most likely did not forget.

Paulie freezes, her spoon in midair. "Yes?" She says slowly.

"Mrs. Kelley wants to talk to mom." Anna's eyes are focused on the floral print of the table, refusing to meet her sister's stare.

Mrs. Kelley is Anna's teacher, otherwise known as Satan. She's tried to set up meetings before, but Joyce (predictably) never showed. Paulie went and tried to smooth things over. And it seemed like it did the trick.

But evidently not.

Something like a giant rock hits her chest, hard enough for her to stop breathing. The spoon clatters against her bowl. Alarm bells are going off in her head, and it's suddenly clear what that gut feeling was earlier.

"Do you know what it's about?" Paulie asks, attempting to feign calmness.

Anna shakes her head. "She just said she wanted to talk to her as soon as possible."

"Well, tell her your mom has to work two jobs and that she can't come," Paulie says, picking at the spaghettios in disinterest.

Anna doesn't say anything.

"I'll meet with her tomorrow, okay? It's going to be fine. You'll see. It's going to be fine."

When Anna's blue eyes reach her own, it's the first time she's seen her sister not believe her.


	5. Chapter 5

I rewrote a small part of chapter 4, so you might want to go back and skim it.

Long story short, I miss writing and cannot stand it any longer, so I'm starting up again.

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Casey fails the quiz. Brent looks at her neat answers, assesses her thought process—and promptly writes an ugly red '58' on the first page.

He feels kind of bad, teaching her the wrong way to answer the questions. But that guilt is overtaken by the sense of elation he feels when he thinks of her needing _his _help. And he wouldn't trade that for anything.

Her face predictably crumples when she sees her grade. And it causes a pang in his chest, because he hates the idea of hurting her—it's never been his intention. Casey stays quiet throughout the whole class, distant from him. It's amazing how much _that _hurts, too. And yet he manages to yammer on and on about these formulas he doesn't give two shits about.

It's all for her. She'll see it soon, see how much he cares. And she won't be angry because he'll be the sweetest man she's ever fallen for.

Then he suddenly notices the other eyes staring at him, the focused, slightly malevolent stare. _She _knows. It's the wrong girl—but Paulie knows everything, knows the way he thinks, knows how much he cares.

But she can't do anything, because she's fallen just as hard for Casey. It's odd, how similar they are. His has his escape in his pictures, hers in drugs.

When class ends, Paulie is the last one in the room. She walks up to his desk, cocky smirk on her lips.

"You should be careful, you know. No need to lose your job over something as unfortunate as a student crush,"

He freezes, not expecting her to actually be blunt, to actually make him face the threat she poses.

Then he just swallow hard, looking her in the eyes. "You should be careful too. No need to lose control over your life because of a crush on a heterosexual girl." He's referring to her tendency to self-medicate, and the message comes across clearly.

Brent doesn't mean it as a threat, or something hurtful. He actually means it as a warning, because in that moment, they both understand each other with alarming clarity.

Paulie just gives him a slight nod, and leaves.

It's the only time they're going to really be honest with each other, and there's a silent understanding of the war that will soon come.

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Paulie sees Casey in the library during lunch. She's staring at her math text, frustration and exhaustion evident in her expression.

"Need a math tutor?" Paulie cracks, sitting down on the chair parallel to her. Casey's still a little too close for comfort; Paulie is far too aware of the change in her breathing and the tremors in her hands.

Casey looks up, then slightly smiles, a mirthless chuckle escaping her lips.

"Actually, yeah. You any good at math?"

"Well, I understand the formulas."

Suddenly, her heartbeat is hammering against her chest, and her vision literally shakes as Casey stands up, pushing the textbook toward her. Her wavy hair brushes against her cheek as Casey settles beside her.

Paulie's brain erupts with nervous chatter, frantically trying to control the heaving of her breaths and failing miserably.

And then the bell rings, saving her. The flood of relief that rushes through her is ridiculous, but welcomed nonetheless.

"Sorry," Paulie mumbles, shrugging. She stands up, picking up her bag.

"Wait!" the word startles her, and she turns around, surprised.

Casey fumbles with her book and other items as she speaks, "Did you mean it? The math tutor thing?"

Paulie's jaw promptly unhinges, but there's a quick recovery as she says, "Er, sure."

"What about after school today?" Casey asks, hopefully.

Paulie pauses, then frowns. "Can't, I gotta go help my kid sister out with something. Tomorrow's good, though."

Casey gives her a smile—not a polite smile, nor a cautious one, but a _real _smile. Paulie didn't think she could fall for Casey any harder, but that smile—that smile made her heart skip a beat.

And then the golden moment arrives—Casey taking her hand and writing her number down. The touch makes sparks run up her spine.

"Feel free to give me a call if something comes up later about tomorrow, okay?"

"S-sure." Paulie stammers. It's rather unfortunate she doesn't have a phone number of her own to provide, and hopes Casey doesn't ask.

"What's yours?" Of course she asks.

"Oh, my phone isn't working at the moment. Um, I can give you my locker number and you can just slip a note in tomorrow morning if something happens."

It's a brilliant plan, and Paulie feels rather proud of herself for thinking so quickly.

"Sounds good," Casey says, as she writes the number down. "Thanks, Paulie."

And with that, she walks away, fully unaware of the effect she's had on the girl. It's a Casey thing, Paulie thinks.

She can't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

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Paulie has to walk to the elementary school, on account of the fact that she doesn't have bus fare. It's not too bad—she has a chance to ruminate over the exchange with Casey without risk of interruption, and it makes the time go by faster than usual.

Anna's expression when she sees her sister in the doorway is one of apprehension. It's not the response Paulie particularly wants to elicit out of her little sister—excitement or joy were the favored ones.

"Hey, Anns," Paulie says, taking a seat next her her, gently pulling at one of her pigtails in jest, "Mrs. Mahoney not here yet?"

"I told her you were coming. I wanted to go home with you today."

It's odd, that Anna would say that. She typically couldn't wait for Mrs. Mahoney to pick her up.

Paulie gives her a puzzled look, but before she can question her sister any further, the charming Mrs. Kelley walks into the room.

The woman is large, with fat cheeks and small eyes. She's not a particularly jolly person; this is evident in the stare that she gives her.

"I see that you've gotten here early," she says, brushing her greasy hair to one side.

"Hey, Anna, why don't you go down to the art room and I'll pick you up there?" Paulie suggests, nudging the girl along slightly.

When she's gone, the teacher closes the door and returns to the seat at her desk. It's mahogany, cluttered with papers and assorted teacher's manuals. There's a small frame sitting at the desk—it's strange seeing a smile on her face there.

"I'm not even going to bother asking why your mother couldn't make it," she begins, "as you're probably going to tell me some half-assed lie about how she couldn't get out of her shift."

Paulie shrugs. "What did you want to have the meeting for?"

"Your sister has been displaying some concerning signs."

Paulie feels the panic slowly stirring inside of her. "What kind of signs?"

"Well," she takes a breath, "the bruises, for one. Neglect is apparent."

"She's…she's a kid. Kids get bruises. And I don't know what you mean by neglect. She has a roof over her head, she's got food, she's got a bed."

"Is she loved, Paulie?"

"_Fuck you," _Paulie hisses, "Where the hell do you get off implying that she isn't loved? I love that girl more than anything in the goddamn world, and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her."

Kelley looks shocked, her mouth open, and she seems speechless.

Paulie takes the moment to make a dramatic exit, because it seems appropriate. She slams the door, and finds Anna.

She's still seething as she takes her sister's paint-covered hand and drags her out of the building.

Later that night, as Paulie helps Anna prepare for bed, she takes a seat instead of just leaving like she usually does.

"Anna, you know I love you, don't you? I know we don't have the nicest house or the nicest things, and mom's a bitch a lot of the time, but you know I'm here for you, if you need anything, right?"

"I know." Anna says simply, and nestles under her covers, "Good night, Paulie."

"Good night, Anna," Paulie says, shutting off the light as she leaves.

The panic and anxiety never leaves, even as she slips into sleep.


End file.
